Imperfection
by Crystalwren
Summary: Integra likes what she sees.


She feels the coldness in the air that inevitably precedes his arrival, but she does not turn around and her hands do not cease their motion.

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What are you doing, Master?

Her hair is very long and always tangles badly when it's wet. Without a rigorous regime of drying and combing it would become a disordered mess of curls at the ends. She hates disorder, and she hates mess. She always brushes it before it dries.

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Master, let me comb your hair. I do not need a brush.

She always uses the heavy silver hairbrushes and combs that her mother left her, the metal worn smooth and shiny around the grips, tarnished along the patterns of dancing fauns and satyrs. The glass in the hand mirror is cracked and spotted, but she likes it that way.

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I don't like it when you use things made of silver.

Which is precisely why she does. She even wore silver jewellery for a time, before she became bored with it. And it had never fitted in with her precisely cultivated image anyway.

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I agree.

The comb snags on a knot, and another, and another. The strands break and drift down to the floor. Messy. She cannot abide a mess, and that's why she keeps servants. She lays the comb down on the dressing table, and leans forward to inspect her face in the mirror. Her dressing gown slips open a little, and she can see the curves of her breasts.

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It's not perfect, Master, but it is certainly very lovely.

She knows very well that she is not beautiful. Her nose is too long and her face too narrow. She is tall and slender, but her buttocks are too skinny and her breasts are too heavy. The combination of pale hair and dark skin is more commonly found in certain types of beauty parlours, and although hers is natural, it doesn't really look it. She curls her lip, and she can see the front tooth that is ever so slightly crooked amongst the rest.

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I like your smile. It reminds me of wolves in the winter.

She uses tweezers to pluck a stray hair from under her eyebrow. There is a blackhead erupting beside her nose. She's been trying for days to evacuate it, but the damn thing is rooted fast.

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There is an easy way to get rid of it, you know. It works. It really does. You won't need any of those loathsome chemicals either.

She gives up on the blackhead, and instead starts rubbing an unscented cream onto her face, her neck, her breasts. It gives her a small, wicked pleasure to see herself reflected, sensual and open in the mirror. She can feel his breath on her neck. If she turned around she'd see him hovering behind her, focused, intent. The devil on her shoulder. She can only see him some mirrors, but not others. Not the dresser. Instead she picks up the little one, the little silver hand mirror, and holds it up. She sees his face, distorted and broken.

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Cracked. How appropriate.

He leers. She lays the mirror back down on the table, and takes up the comb and resumes brushing her hair.

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For a woman who is not vain, you nevertheless care a great deal about your appearance.

It took an effort to maintain her indifferent seeming. If she wore cosmetics, she could cover over the flaws in her skin. If she dressed her hair she would not have to worry about the wind twisting it into wild knots. She would be able to tame the stubborn cowlick on her forehead that refused to submit to water alone. Instead, a strict regime of creams and cleansers and discrete beauty therapy upheld the illusion of uncaring.

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You smell delicious.

He is always unbearable when she menstruates. She's never understood it. She asked him once, years ago, why old, dead blood was so appealing to him, why the scent of her waste was so attractive, and he'd looked at her and smiled and replied, because it is yours of course.

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Just think, a body that does not age. A skin without stray hairs or dirt to mar it. Eyes that do not need correction. You'd be free from all of the filthy tiresome chores that reduce you the same level as the rest of the stinking human race. You'd be above them, like you should be. Master, say yes!

Integra looks at all her imperfections in the mirror and smiles.

Word Count: 752 words.

Notes: I liked the format I used in my last drabble, so I copied it. Unlike my last piece, however, I haven't really spent much time polishing so please forgive any lingering roughness. I really just wanted to get this idea out of the way so I could concentrate on the pieces I'm working on. Originally posted on Bloody Shorts.


End file.
